


When Silence Gets Too Hard

by Kiertorata



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, F/F, Light Angst, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiertorata/pseuds/Kiertorata
Summary: A story of longing, unchosen paths and a nightly meeting of comrades in a dark time, this is the story of Minerva and Amelia and their love.
Relationships: Amelia Bones/Minerva McGonagall
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2019





	When Silence Gets Too Hard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kira_katrine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kira_katrine/gifts).

> Dear kira_katrine, I'm so glad I got to write for you. I've always wanted to explore Minerva more, and your prompts gave me the perfect chance to do so. I hope this is an enjoyable mix of angst, hope and the homely for you.
> 
> Thank you to Lena for your invaluable feedback.

A letter dropped into Minerva’s hand at breakfast. With some relief, she pushed aside the rag that called itself _The Daily Prophet_ and unfolded the letter to find the familiar, neat handwriting she had been longing to see.

Umbridge reached past her to grab the cream and narrowed her toad-like eyes at her.

“Reading something of interest, Minerva?”

“A letter from my lover,” Minerva retorted, and returned to the business of reading it. From the corner of her eye she could see Dolores blush in anger, and she allowed her lips to curl just the slightest. If there was any satisfaction in the whole insufferable business of the Ministry butting its head into Hogwarts matters, it was in moments like these.

After finishing her reading, Minerva scanned over the contents again just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything of importance. There was the usual latest about Amelia’s large and rambunctious family, the carefully lukewarm descriptions about her work at the Ministry, and some questions about Minerva’s job. It was an ordinary letter, and if Minerva had been hoping for something else, she needed to squint to find it.

It was a letter nonetheless. That in itself held significance despite Minerva’s nonchalant comment to Dolores.

There was the whole unresolved, un-apologized for fight in late spring, that had been causing a wordless rift between her and Amelia. The state of mess that two grown-up witches could get themselves in made her want to shake her head. There was something about growing older that made everyone a little more stupid, and that made time pass faster than what felt decent or at all fair. Weeks passed in what felt like days, and suddenly before anyone knew it, four months were by: no shared sea-side house during the summer holidays, no weekend visits to Amelia’s rooms above Fortesque’s or, less often, to Minerva’s small flat off Cowgate, Edinburgh. Barely no word at all.

Minerva pocketed the letter and poured the remainders of her black coffee down her throat before standing up. For a disgusting second, she watched in fascination as Dolores licked a lump of marmalade off her moist lips, but then she returned to her right mind and proceeded to exit the Great Hall.

She went about her day in an ordinary manner, but some odd undertone of restlessness followed her throughout her classes and other responsibilities for the day. Her heart, as if aware of the letter sitting closely in her pocket, retreated to the safety of the back of her ribcage, and she could feel it there, unnaturally silent and heavy, shielding itself from – what? – discomfort or hope.

Her job, which she loved despite what her students might think, frustrated her more than usual that day. It was ridiculous, teaching second-years to transfigure beetles into buttons when what they really needed to know was how to blast a Death Eater to smithereens. (Or how to transfigure an irritating pink bug into something far more unpleasant than a button.)

After the last of her afternoon classes, she tried with some effort to pick up some grading in her office, but was seized by some uncharacteristic, anxious shuffling that annoyed her. She was behaving like the exact picture of a jittery deer or mouse, someone like Sybill, whom she did not want to resemble under any circumstances. Distractedly, she dug her desk drawer for a quill and ink when a small knock was heard from the doorframe.

“Professor McGonagall?”

“What can I help you with, Miss Arncliffe?”

It was a Ravenclaw seventh year who had started to become increasingly demanding about her academic needs – more than Ravenclaws in general. The girl dropped her bag to the chair near the wall and approached Minerva’s desk, and Minerva wondered what it was going to be this time. She suspected Miss Arncliffe was still a little salty at her about not making her Head Girl.

“It’s my Transfiguration essay— you see,” the girl said with an appealing look. “I spent all my waking hours on it these past two weeks. I even borrowed the book you mentioned in class, and it wasn’t easy to get, I had to bribe Ali with a butterbeer since it was gone from the library – which I suspect was Granger’s doing, by the way.”

Minerva dropped the quill she had been holding back into the desk drawer. She did not know what she had been about to do with it anyway. She put on a patient yet no-nonsense frown and turned to Arncliffe in what she hoped looked like an effort to listen.

What would Amelia have said if there was no reason to fear their letters were intercepted? And would they have to wait until Christmas to see each other again? Suddenly everything felt small and impossible at once. They certainly weren’t getting any younger.

“So, I was just wondering if you would let me try to raise my E to an O, maybe with an extra assignment,” Miss Arncliffe said. “Professor?”

Minerva was roused to the present and realized she had missed half of what Becky Arncliffe had just said.

“You know my policy,” she said, narrowing her eyes just slightly. “If I gave you a chance for extra credit, I would have to offer it to everyone.”

Miss Arncliffe’s face dropped; for a moment she looked absurdly dejected, her face twisted into a factitious pout.

“I’m starting to worry about my N.E.W.T.s, Professor. I’m still very set on that Transfiguration apprenticeship with Serilda Silvestri, and she only takes a new apprentice every three years, so if I don’t do my very best, I’ll have lost my chance. Do you think I can do it, that I have a chance?”

“Yes, I believe you have a chance. If everything turns out alright,” Minerva said with a long sigh.

“What do you mean if everything turns out alright?”

_The war, idiot child._ Minerva shook her head just slightly; she tried to make out what Miss Arncliffe was made of underneath the schoolgirlish show, but was unable to detect any emotion beyond the swotty worry she presented.

“Nothing. I suggest you spend less time reading and more time doing, Miss Arncliffe,” she said finally, and fixed the girl in a sharp look. “Madam Silvestri is very adamant that her students are more than competent in all the basics. In fact, you should be able to do all the small-sized transfigurations in your sleep.”

Her gaze lingered on the door after Becky left the office, and she sighed again, wondering if she had been too gentle on the girl. How the events from last summer clearly hadn’t hit everyone in the consciousness like a Bludger still surprised her.

But beyond the general muddled mist of confusion that occupied the castle, she knew everyone had different ways of reacting to shocking events. Perhaps this was just the girl’s way of coping despite that it bordered on the irritating.

Perhaps Becky Arncliffe needed to cling to the image of her post-Hogwarts self living a bright future as a Transfiguration master’s apprentice. Perhaps it brought some sense of safety to the fact that her very life and future were crumbling beneath her.

There were few things Minerva clinged to; she had learned that holding onto things was not always worth it. Sometimes, in her twisted Scottish humour, she liked to relish the broken, the lost and the disappeared, because in some way, it was the universe’s way of showing her once more not to fuck around, not to plan anything, not to count on anything still being there and just live in the damn present.

She had chosen a different path years ago, and it had been a good one too. It had followed in the footsteps of normalcy, of mornings in the garden, of tea with cream, shy caresses and simple intimacy. It wasn’t entirely normal either, her relationship with a muggle – at least if you asked _some_ people – but those opinions didn’t matter. In a way it had been easier, more understandable.

Nothing was easy or normal about now.

The war was approaching, that much was clear. The clammy horrors of the first one had barely left her skin.

Her evening tea was more often doused with whisky than what was probably deemed safe for a schoolteacher by the Board of Governors; as if anything was safe for school children these days when there was a sickly-green mark of doom gleaming above every damn house.

And her lover was… well, it was impossible to put simply the core-shaking, earth-shattering fusion of emotions she felt with Amelia.

_You’re holding up your end of the world, and I’m holding up mine_, Minerva thought tiredly, thinking again of Amelia. She could feel the shadows under her eyes like the weight of some sickly disease, and just for a moment let herself imagine a different kind of life. How wonderful it would be to wake up next to her wife, to languid kisses and toast and tea in the mornings, to more walks around town, more dedicated spellwork research and more frequent sex.

To no war.

There was something about wars that made people go back twenty years and dream of clean-cut houses and things like conventional gender roles as if they were some otherworldly and beautiful fantasy. So, in a way, Minerva could understand students like Becky Arncliffe or even Dolores Umbridge. Dolores was trying to feel safe in uncertain times, even though she did so through bigoted, racist views.

Minerva could certainly sympathize with Dolores in a way that Amelia could not. The working-class background, the challenging familial relations, the way she so ardently felt the need to express her belonging with wizarding culture – all symptoms of a deeply ingrained shame that didn’t make her any less unpleasant but at least put her unpleasantness into context. Those would always be things that Amelia, born to the long lineage of well-standing, pureblood Bones could not fully understand.

Minerva thought about all this on the way through the quiet halls.

Back in her quarters, she took out the letter from the pocket of her robes and carefully unfolded it. She wondered what Amelia was doing right now, if she was still at the Ministry working late in her new office that Minerva had only seen once. An image flashed in Minerva’s mind of Amelia writing in the light of her lamp, the shadows thickening around her, her hand occasionally reaching for the biscuit tin in her desk drawer that Minerva knew she kept for late-night nibbles. Her heart ached.

If only she could risk a Floo call, it would be much easier than writing a letter. No, Dolores had a watch on the Floo network around Hogwarts, probably Hogsmeade too. It wouldn’t do to raise her suspicion any more than necessary, when she already believed Dumbledore was trying to get a leg up on the Minister. They had agreed with Amelia that the less a well-known Ministry official like her had to do with Hogwarts – at least on the surface – the better.

_Knock, knock._

Minerva stood up, roused from her thoughts. Hastily but with some care she placed her copy of _Ancient Transfigurations_ on top of Amelia’s letter and went to the door, but it turned out she had worried for naught.

It was Poppy, suggesting evening tea to celebrate the end of the week. She had a notch in her schedule; no blown up cauldrons that day, bones to mend or pain-relieving potions to administer.

“Whisky? Brandy?” Minerva asked.

“Just a cup of good, strong tea, if you please. I have to go back and watch some overnight patients soon – Winky’s with them now – thank Merlin it’s been a quiet day, I’ve had enough nonsense recently with the baby Acromantulas Wilhelmina has decided to introduce to the fourth years.”

Minerva chuckled; there was something reassuring about Poppy being her somewhat overly-serious self. She opened the door wider and let her friend in from the darkened hallway into the warmth of her candle-lit room.

Just as Poppy was about to take a seat they heard another knock. Pomona, in her legendary ankle-length lace nightshirt and home-made shawl made an appearance behind her door. She was holding a candlestick and her current knitting project.

“I just thought I’d pop in to see if you’re still awake. The first Friday of the month was usually reserved for discussing gardening tips with Hagrid over ale – poor soul, I hope he’s faring alright,” she said. Then, she noticed the addition to Minerva’s rooms. “Oh, hello Poppy. Good to see your head outside the Infirmary every now and then.”

She took a seat at the armchair by the window, and Minerva started to serve out tea. While they had been chatting, the house-elves, thoughtful and efficient as ever, had filled her teapot with fresh tea and even left a few biscuits on the side.

Rolanda, never one to miss a party, arrived a few minutes later. How she knew where everyone was was a mystery; she knew how to sniff out fun like a badger.

“So, you thought you could have a party without me?” Rolanda said, grinning her signature grin with her head tilted just the slightest to the right.

“Well, it’s only a tea party, so I thought you wouldn’t be interested,” Minerva quipped, feeling her lips twist into an unwitting smile. Rolanda was one of Minerva’s oldest friends. There had briefly been something between them during their time at Hogwarts; girlfriends – in a time when such things had barely had a name. Their love had run its course with the ecstatic ups and intense lows that were an inevitable part of young love, but their lifelong friendship had been established then and had carried on steadily since.

One noticeably wistful glance from Rolanda in the direction of Minerva’s liquor cabinet was enough to convince her that it was an occasion for her special hard tea. It was Friday, after all.

“You read my thoughts, Min,” Rolanda said when a bottle of Cruden Bay single malt floated before her face.

Poppy declined and Pomona looked like she was about to, but then she bashfully allowed Minerva to pour just a dab of whisky into her milky tea.

“The business with Dolores is getting unbearable,” Rolanda said as she slumped down onto Minerva’s bed with her drink.

“Poor Sybill,” Pomona said. “I know you’ve never agreed with her teaching methods, Minerva, but the way Dolores was treating her yesterday in the staff meeting in front of everybody just nearly broke my heart.”

“Yes, she practically ripped Sybill to shreds,” Minerva said, meeting Pomona’s troubled face grimly. How strange that Sybill hadn’t been able to foresee the rotten course her life would take, she thought, but didn’t say this out loud. She did have some compassion, after all.

“Her nerves, at least,” Rolanda said. “But I always say this and will never stop saying it: Sybill needs to learn to loosen up a little bit. If only she would start flying. Or gardening.” She raised her cup at Pomona in acknowledgement. “Anything to get her out of her head a little bit.”

“I’m not that keen on flying being encouraged any more than it already is,” Poppy said. “Gardening, on the other hand, I give my wholehearted approval to.”

Pomona turned to look at her with some solemnity. “I hope the Ministry considers it as sensible a practice as you, Poppy. I have my inspection with Dolores coming up next week, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. In fact, I must say I’m looking forward to the holidays more than usual,” she added with an air of wistfulness.

Minerva flicked her wand and another round of whisky made its way into expectant cups. Pomona brought her cup to her lips absentmindedly; her knitting lay forgotten in her lap.

“We need to do something about it,” Rolanda said. “Umbridge can’t keep antagonizing us like this.”

“It’s not really just her, it’s Fudge and the rest of the Ministry. They’ve just chosen a particularly vicious henchwoman to do the job,” Poppy put in.

“Well, I’m not having it,” Rolanda interrupted. She was getting rather red around the cheeks and her eyes were getting a dangerous shine to them. “Complaining about it was fun for the first few weeks, but things are getting more serious than I could really care for.”

“I might have looked the other way yesterday when I saw Lee Jordan and Fred Weasley doing something around her office door after hours,” Minerva said. “I might have even told them the coast was clear.”

Rolanda laughed. “Good on you.”

“What do you say we marched into her room right now and put a little sense into her ourselves?” Minerva said. A rebellious energy was starting to arise in her, and she could feel the inner jester that had been asleep for a woefully many years begin to stir. The whisky may have played its part.

“Her rooms could use a little re-organizing,” Pomona admitted.

“We could smash her precious china,” Rolanda put in helpfully.

“No, I like cats,” someone said from the door.

The voice filled Minerva’s every nerve in an instant. Before she even realized she was off the bedside and halfway to the door.

“Amelia!” Minerva said. 

“Of course you like cats, Bones, you’ve got quite the feline here...” she heard get called from the bed.

“Shut it, Hooch,” Minerva said, retrieving her best teacher’s authority. She turned back to Amelia and tried to search her face for anything. Amelia’s eyes locked with hers, connecting Minerva to warm, impenetrable depths.

“Albus sent me through the Floo. He said it would be alright,” Amelia said in her low, rich voice.

There was always something strange and even surreal about seeing her after a long time. Minerva scanned over the familiar lines of her face: the serious lips, the intelligent brow, the square jaw balanced out by curved cheeks. There were fresh streaks of silver in her gray hair.

“You didn’t run into anyone on the way up here?”

“If you mean our favorite floppy pink custard cake, then no,” Amelia said, taking off her cloak. She set it on top of Minerva’s cloak by the door. “I had a chat with the Fat Friar and an illuminating moment watching Peeves stuff Dungbombs into one of the suits of armour, but otherwise it was quiet.”

She hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed, then, Minerva thought. Umbridge would be sure to find out; she had eyes all over the castle.

She would worry about that later. Amelia was here, that was remarkable in itself. Minerva was determined to put aside any of her current or previous concern and enjoy the evening. Amelia gave her arm an affectionate brush as she walked past her and entered the room.

Minerva watched her pour a congenial measure of whisky into her cup and squeeze in some lemon before submerging the whole thing in tea. The homely ritual sent her mind into another cloud of momentary surreality. If they hadn’t chosen their respective paths—well, that was a different story.

“So, I take it her taste in gaudy porcelain hasn’t changed since the Ministry?” Rolanda said, scooting over to make room for Amelia on the bed.

“Oh, you don’t know the worst of it,” Amelia said.

“How are you, Bones?” Rolanda asked, just as Pomona said, “How are you, Amelia?”

Minerva observed quietly and allowed herself to enjoy the scene in front of her. There were rarely occasions that Amelia and her closest friends were all in the same room – in fact, it had been a solid ten years since the last event, which had been Minerva’s fiftieth birthday party.

“The usual. Family’s okay, Ministry’s a mess— although there’s some good people there too, despite what you’d like to think.”

“You may have overheard us discussing what to do with one of the… less good ones,” Rolanda said. “We were just about to go stir up some Chaos Concoction in Umbridge’s rooms, proverbially speaking, that is.”

“Or not so proverbially,” Minerva said, letting her lips turn into a devious smile.

“We aren’t really going to do anything of the sort, are we?” Pomona said. She looked back and forth between them and caught Minerva and Rolanda sharing a look. When she saw it, she said, “Oh dear.”

“Do you know what? I do think I’m up for a little mischief tonight,” Amelia said. She threw her head back and tipped the remainders of her cup into her mouth.

*

That’s how they found themselves (all but Poppy, who had left at the same time to return to the Infirmary), four witches in their fifties and sixties, sneaking like teenagers through the halls at night. Minerva and her Hufflepuffs, a pack of nervous excitement under a carelessly cast Muffliato.

They dodged a hall where Peeves could be heard truckling to the Bloody Baron, and avoided all the halls where the prefects generally did their rounds. Throughout their journey, Minerva was conscious of Amelia, solid and warm next to her.

When they almost ran into a pair of snogging Slytherins, Pomona let out a girlish giggle. The couple was too busy to take notice of them, and their group retreated to a safer route.

“We really should have told them off. It’s past hours,” Pomona said.

“Oh, don’t be a nag, Pommie. It’ll be much more fun for the prefects to catch them,” Rolanda said.

They paused at Dolores’s door.

“We’ll watch her quarters, then,” Rolanda said, nudging at Pomona. She gave Minerva a small nod of understanding, and Minerva thanked her mentally. “If we run into Umbridge, Pomona will put on her best show of being worried about the inspection and distract her. Offer to knit her some doilies, I think she’d appreciate that.”

“I _am_ worried about the inspection.” Pomona said. “Oh, dear me, I seem to have forgotten my knitting in your room, Minerva. This won’t do.”

“You’ll be alright,” Rolanda said, and gave Pomona a hearty pat on the back.

“I never imagined your job to be this much fun,” Amelia said to Minerva once they had turned around the corner to go their separate way.

“Well, there are all the crying and screaming students. Occasionally,” Minerva replied.

Now that they were alone, some of her earlier thoughts were starting to come back to her. Seeing Amelia again had washed everything away in a soothing wave of relief, and the childish dispute that Minerva had been clinging to, as if holding onto it would stop the forces around her from pushing everything over the edge, felt small and inconsequential. But there were still many things for them to discuss.

But first, she wanted to cause some havoc. The spirit of rebellion that had stirred within her during the unpremeditated meeting of suffering comrades was still pumping through her, bringing forth a restless urge to bring at least some wrong to right.

When they reached Umbridge’s office, Minerva threw a few of the most common unlocking spells at the door. One of them finally did the job and they heard a quiet ‘click’.

A buzz of excitement rippled through them as they entered. Amelia pulled the door close behind them.

From their decorated porcelain captivity, rows and rows of cats stirred their heads at them as they entered. They could hear hundreds of pathetic mewls, barely-audible but all the more horrific for the knife-sharp silence of the room.

“It’s worse than I remembered,” Minerva said. She had been there once before, early into term.

Amelia strode across the room toward the ghastly gallery on the wall and grabbed one of the decorative plates. The plump ragdoll cat on it looked horrified and scurried to the edge of the plate to hide among the pattern of roses. Amelia pretended to throw it to the wall, but stopped the motion at the last second. She put the plate back into its place.

“I couldn’t really hurt a cat, not even a painted one – no matter how horrible,” she said. The cat hissed at her quietly from its shelter.

Minerva snorted in amusement.

She knew they really couldn’t do anything that could cause suspicion, but she grabbed a few plates as well and swapped their places, getting simple enjoyment out of the action. It was ridiculous and childish, perhaps, but she took satisfaction in knowing that her resistance was now concrete, physical. As a final touch, she took a plate with a Siamese cat on it and charmed a small lump of poo on it.

“This reminds me of being back in school,” Amelia said. Her eyes were shining bright in the soft glow of her wand.

Minerva let out a hum of agreement.

Of course Minerva remembered Amelia from Hogwarts, everyone did. As Head Girl, three years above Minerva, she had seemed infallible, untouchable, as if surrounded by some shimmering halo. In a way, she had seemed to hold the entire Hufflepuff house if not the whole school together with her warm but determined leadership.

When she had met Amelia again some years after Hogwarts, her authority had held a different kind of appeal.

It had commanded Minerva to go against every sense of caution or reserve and gravitate towards the irresistible pull that urged her to let go of everything.

It was only after some time that Minerva had learned about all the other things there were to Amelia: the way her laughter bubbled in light, uneven spurts, the way her nieces and nephews had adored her, the way she got private amusement out of the many different mannerisms of her Ministry colleagues, and how she was a little held back in expressing her teasing spirit, but was more than delighted when Minerva acted out on her cunning impulses.

“You didn’t do this kind of thing at Hogwarts. You had a reputation to uphold,” Minerva said, affection laced in her voice.

“True. Unlike you,” Amelia said, amused. “I will never forget the time the Great Hall was filled with snow, and we were informed it was a certain Gryffindor fourth year and her friends.”

They had approached Dolores’s desk now. In silent agreement, they started to look through Dolores’s things. Minerva scoffed at _Defensive Magical Theory_, next to which lay a neat list in dark-pink ink titled ‘Lesson Plans’.

Amelia unlocked the top drawer, while Minerva gave the dried flowers sitting in an ornamental, pink vase a disapproving sniff.

Amelia pulled out a small, velvet pouch from within which came a little glass vial. She brought the vial up close for Minerva to see.

“Look, do you think this is…?”

“Veritaserum, by the looks of it,” Minerva said, and a cold feeling washed over her. “No doubt illegal.”

She looked around for something that wouldn’t be missed and grabbed a doily from underneath the quill jar. With a swift tap of her wand, she turned it into a resemblance of the little vial.

“_Aguamenti_,” she whispered as a final touch.

“It looks perfect, but Umbridge would be mad not to notice the difference,” Amelia said with a frown as Minerva slipped the vial into the bag and back into the desk drawer.

“Well, I’m not leaving the real thing with her. I’ll have to let Albus know about this,” Minerva said, tucking the real potion into her front pocket.

Suddenly, they heard a key turn in the keyhole and Amelia met her eyes in alarm.

Minerva had to act quickly. Heart pounding heavily, she cast a hurried Disillusionment Charm on them both and as quietly as possible, they shuffled near to the window, where they could hopefully blend in with the uneven pattern of the heavy curtains.

A fluttering beam of light appeared through the door first, followed by a dark figure. From the pink of her night robe that was exposed by the floating candlelight before her, Minerva knew it was Dolores.

Holding her breath, she watched Dolores make her way to the desk. What was she doing in her office at this late hour? Cursed whisky, how stupid Minerva had been to not realize they had probably triggered a ward when they broke in. She hoped Pomona and Rolanda had not run into any trouble. She squeezed her wand tighter and sneaked a glance at the shape of Amelia, barely concealed by the shadows.

Dolores’s gaze seemed to linger on the quill jar suspiciously long, but in the end she just set her wand down for a moment to straighten the quills. She hummed lightly and Minerva let herself relax just a little when she opened her bottom desk drawer for something.

Finally, when Minerva’s bones were starting to ache from holding still for so long, Dolores left the office with a book or notebook in hand. The door made a locking sound behind her.

For at least a minute, Minerva kept staring in the direction she thought Amelia was in, until she gave a small laugh of relief and dropped the Disillusionment.

Amelia laughed with her, and plopped down to sit next to her beneath the window.

“Oh dear,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I thought I would have a heart attack.”

It was cold near the window, but Minerva made a gesture with her arm and Amelia snuggled in close to her. Minerva gave her a soft kiss on the cheek and Amelia turned her head enough for their lips to meet. For a minute, Minerva basked in the simple pleasure of their bodies greeting each other after long months of absence.

When they parted, she decided to cut the chase and just ask what had been on her mind recently.

“Amelia?”

“Yes?”

“Can’t we just have what normal couples have?”

“Like what?”

“A home. A shared life,” Minerva said. Amelia raised an eyebrow at her, but kept listening patiently. Minerva could hear the absurdity of it as she spoke, but she continued, feeling a strange amusement bubble in her as she did. Perhaps it was the setting they were in. “A house. A garden that we work on for one summer before we let it be taken over by weeds. Awkward conversation with the neighbors, who can’t decide if we’re just friends living together for convenience or a couple of old lesbians. Can’t I convince you to start a home with me?”

Amelia laughed.

“I would be bored out of my mind,” she said. “And I don’t think you’d fair much better, Minnie.”

Her hand, lined and scattered with sunspots from the years, was warm in Minerva’s hand. Her eyes seemed to be radiating their own little light and for a moment, Minerva was caught in them, captured by the essence of Amelia that seemed unusually bare.

“I know. You’re right,” Minerva said. “I suppose it’s the war. It’s had me preoccupied with the sorts of things I normally wouldn’t give two damns about.”

“What about the Order?” Amelia said. “You’re going to keep doing it?”

Minerva had suspected this was what had been bothering Amelia at the start of summer. Her brother’s family that had died in the first war for being intimately associated with the Order would never stop being a painful subject for her.

“I’m in the thick of it,” she finally said. “And I couldn’t choose otherwise. I will stand with Albus and Hogwarts until the end.”

Amelia looked at her and didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Then I’m with you,” Amelia said. “Again.”

*

Back close to Minerva’s rooms, they lingered at the door; Minerva was aware that every minute out in the halls was at the risk of them being seen, but after their narrow escape from Umbridge’s office, it felt like a small risk to take.

“Do you need to get back?” she asked.

“I can spare a few more minutes,” Amelia replied. “It’s too late to bother Albus anymore, anyway. I’ll Apparate from Hogsmeade. If Umbridge sees me, I can say I was there for Christmas shopping.”

“At midnight?”

“Christmas shopping that extended into multiple cinnamon eggnogs at the Hog’s Head. I’m sure Umbridge would love to think I’m a drinker.”

“As much as I like to imagine you getting scandalously drunk with Aberforth Dumbledore, I doubt that would be the first thing Dolores would think of under current circumstances,” Minerva said, sobering a little.

Amelia stopped her with a gesture, and looked Minerva dead in the eye. She held her in her strong gaze as she spoke.

“We can’t stop living our lives while we prepare for war. We can’t start sacrificing what’s most important. After all, what would there be left to fight for?”

The moment stretched raw between them and Minerva found her whole body aching for the remarkable woman before her.

“Indeed,” Minerva said. “Come.”

She took Amelia by the arm. No longer under the effect of Cruden’s single malt but drunk on the rush of having done something reckless, they stumbled into her rooms and towards the bed.

A half-drunk cup of tea-whisky left in conspiratory guard sat on the bedside table. Minerva moved Pomona’s forgotten knitting project off the bed next to it and pulled Amelia onto the bed with her. As the last conscious sentiment of the day, she thought that this really was home, temporary yet eternal.


End file.
